My Turn
by BrokenKestral
Summary: Peter, Edmund, and a frozen river in the middle of winter. What could go wrong?


Disclaimer: Narnia is obviously, apparently, visibly, and all other such synonyms _not mine_, and the idea for the story came from a very detailed prompt from VanillaBreeze19, so the story itself isn't really mine either. I was, however, given permission to change it, so any mistakes (and most probably all bad decisions) are entirely mine.

**Updated 08/31/19 because trustingHim17 kindly pointed out hornets don't leave stingers, and I changed it to bees. :) Thank you for helping me keep these accurate!**

OOOOO

"It's my turn."

"No, it's mine."

"You went first last time, remember? When we had to cross that bridge made of rotten planks to get away from Oreius's search party or we'd have to run from Cair to the beach _and_ back eighteen times again? Since we still can't make it to twenty? It's my turn this time."

Edmund glared at his brother. He did, in fact, remember going across the creaking, groaning bridge before his heavier brother (and he was quite proud of winning that argument, too), but that had been a mere badger's height above a muddy stream in _summer_, and nothing had gone wrong. If something went wrong _this_ time…

* * *

Mrs. Beaver peered out of the window of her home, looking at the white, snow-frosted world, currently quiet in the twilight. She looked back down at her new sewing machine, Mr. Beaver's bag laying there, halfway stitched. She should finish it, he'd already ripped a hole in his old one on the trip to the Stone Table, and they'd lost the others. Still...she looked back out the window again, wondering just how cold it was out.

Quite cold. Far too cold for two humans to be out. "Now quit your worrying. The kings will be fine," said her husband behind her.

She picked up her sewing again. He was right, of course.

He was. Of course he was. The kings would be fine. Absolutely fine.

She set her sewing down again.

* * *

Edmund shivered as he looked over the frozen river they were debating crossing. It The wind coming off it was biting; they'd be chilled through. But only that, if the ice held. But if it broke-

He turned back to his brother. "_I_ should go first," he argued. "If the ice breaks, you've a far better chance of getting me clear than me pulling you out. I'm _lighter_."

"You used that argument last time, Ed. You can't use it every time."

"It's _true_ every time, you great lummox."

"If you're lighter and you go first, you'd still have to pull me out if it cracked under me and not under you," Peter pointed out. "I'd rather you were watching for it than halfway across yourself."

Edmund scowled at his reasonable tone, trying to think of an answer. He really didn't like this. "What am I supposed to do if the ice _does_ break? Skid across the ice and catch you before you're completely under? I'll just go tumbling into the water after you."

"I'll be wearing a rope; I've got one right here. We'll tie one end to your horse. He'll be able to pull me back just fine. And that's _if _anything goes wrong." Edmund still scowled. "And it's _my _turn, Ed."

Of course Peter would arrange _his turn_ so that it was something truly dangerous. Why couldn't Edmund ever take the real risks first?

"Peter…"

* * *

Mr. Beaver was bustling around behind her, putting away the leftovers from lunch. Not that the two kings left much; Sons of Adam seemed to eat quite a bit, nearly as much as centaurs. The two'd left full of food, on horses, and they'd dressed warmly. Mr. Beaver was right. King Peter and King Edmnd would be fine. She started the machine for the third time, but stilled again. The bustling behind her had paused. He, too, was looking out the window. "They've got a wolf with them," Mr. Beaver muttered to himself. "He'll keep them on the trail till they reach Cair Paravel. There's no reason to worry." She heard the bread board scrape against the table as he picked it up. "And with horses they'll be there in no time. Not like our first trip together." The breadboard was set down with a loud clatter. "They'll be just fine."

* * *

Edmund looked back at the river, trying to think of any other argument. He knew in a few more moments Peter would just start moving. Peter was like that.

Okay, okay, so they both were like that sometimes. Both of them had agreed - without a word spoken - that their guard, the wolf Reth, needed to go home. Another of his pack had met them on their way home, bringing news that his wife was ill, and the two had looked at the clearly marked path, at the wolves, and Peter and Edmund both had been firm in saying Reth should go home, they'd be fine. And when he'd started arguing, Peter had simply commanded him to go home, picked up his reins, and left, Edmund following. Because Peter was like that, doing what he thought was right and sensible no matter what other people said.

And now he was getting down from his horse. To cross a river neither of them remembered crossing on the way to the Beavers. They'd taken a wrong turning somewhere, but they were still going the right direction. They were pretty sure, anyway. Well, partially sure.

Fine, they were lost. _Really_ lost.

"Peter, maybe we should go around," Edmund said suddenly. Beautiful as the white river shone, surrounded by soothing, snow-covered trees, it still looked dangerous.

Peter stopped, the rope around his waist and the beginnings of a knot in his hand. He looked up. "It's a _river_. There isn't any _going around_. Unless you want to go all the way to the mountains and find the source, but you know the mountains are the more dangerous of the two when covered in ice." They both looked towards the two hills in the distance, thinking of going up the slippery, roadless incline from horseback.

Edmund looked back at the river. It looked so solid...solid enough for a horse. It was probably the right way. And Peter didn't weigh quite that much.

It really did look solid. And it was Peter's turn. And he did have a rope. But still..."Fine, but if you fall into freezing cold water in the middle of winter when we don't know where we are, I get to say I told you so."

"We can take turns for that, too," Peter said, grinning. He tied the knot tight and brought the other end to Edmund, handing it up. He waited while Edmund tied it around his horse's saddle, then handed Edmund the reins to his horse as well. With another reassuring smile he turned towards the river.

* * *

Mr. Beaver sat down, the washing up finished, and lit his pipe. He sat there smoking in silence for a few minutes, and Mrs. Beaver went back to sewing.

* * *

Peter climbed down the bank - snow up to his ankles, and Edmund winced as he saw Peter's legs sink in the wet snow. He still didn't like the cold. He watched, almost hypnotised. One of Peter's feet sank, the other came up, sank into the snow, came up. Peter was at the edge.

"Peter."

Peter paused and looked back.

"Do you think the girls take turns, like this, doing stupid things?"

Peter thought for a moment. "I want to say 'They'd better not,' but we both know Lucy would." He thought a moment longer. "I'm sure Susan has her own ways to keep Lucy in check. Probably not quite as dumb as ours," he said, grinning at Edmund. "Can you imagine Susan arguing about it being her turn to cross an ice-covered river?" Edmund smiled back, or tried to. He _really didn't like this._

Peter faced forward again. He put one foot on the ice, testing it. A little more weight, a little more, a little more - one foot still on the bank. The ice held without even creaking. Peter lifted his other foot, and set it down, full weight on the ice, and it still held.

"Let out the rope some, Ed," he called back, and Edmund looked down at his hands and realised he'd wound the rope around one again and again, tight enough to be pulling Peter backwards. He grimaced, but unwound it. Peter, feeling the rope go slack, took another step forward, and another, sliding them forward instead of lifting them up, careful to balance. A stride away from the bank now, and the ice still holding.

Edmund hated waiting. "Come on, Peter," he said under his breath. The ice hadn't even groaned. That was good. It was holding. That was _very_ good. It was getting darker, and they still had to get the horses across, and that wasn't good. But worst, Peter still wasn't across yet, and something could still go wrong.

* * *

"Does it ever seem the kings take turns?" Mrs. Beaver put down her bag and looked at her husband.

"What, dear?"

"The kings. First time they came up here with just the queens, Queen Lucy ran off the path to see a squirrel's house and walked into a bees' nest, remember? King Peter grabbed her before she got stung more than twice, wrapped himself around her, and got her out, they told us. But not before he'd been stung more than twenty times."

"His arms were all swollen and painful looking, the poor thing. But he wouldn't let Queen Lucy use the cordial," Mrs. Beaver remembered. "He said they were just bee stings."

"And Queen Susan had to pull out all the stings. But the next time it was King Edmund who appeared, his face bleeding and fingers cut to ribbons. They'd gotten lost again, and he'd insisted on sliding down that hill on the mountain first, because he thought he saw a way down."

Mrs. Beaver shook her head. "The whole neighborhood heard the rock slide, and we came and found King Edmund half buried in it, bruised everywhere, and King Peter yelling his name as he tried to find a way down without pushing more rock on King Edmund." She paused. "They made it here just fine, Aslan be thanked. But-"

She paused. "Oh, they'll be fine going home."

* * *

The ice creaked and Peter froze. Edmund's exhaled sharply, breath steaming in the cold, and his fingers tightened on the rope.

The noise ceased. "It's fine," Peter called back. He took another step, and another. Edmund felt the rope, barely, sliding through his numb fingers. Peter was halfway across, at the weakest point.

Still the ice held.

Peter slowly turned around, grinning across the river. "See, Edmund! I told you it'd be fine!"

And because Narnia had it in for know-it-all brothers, the ice broke, and Peter fell.

"Peter!" Edmund screamed, and the rope was skidding through his fingers. The horse jerked under him, the line played out, and Edmund grabbed the reins, pulling back, back, pulling on the rope. Peter's head came above the surface, his arms flailing on the broken ice. "Peter, get up, _get up!_" Peter's arms, wet, shaking so hard even Edmund could see it, rested on the edge. Edmund kept backing, backing, the slack pulling hard - but the rope stuck.

Stuck on ice, Edmund realised with cold fear. Ice that could cut it. And Peter wasn't getting out.

But Peter was breathing. Above water. Edmund looked at the rope, at the river, at the knot tied to his saddle. He swung off his horse.

* * *

Mr. Beaver was tapping his pipe on the arm of his chair. It'd gone out, but he hadn't seemed to notice. "Next time it was King Peter that got himself in trouble." He shook his head. "Every time, those two kings, every time. When they came he was coated in mud, worse than a beaver digging the roots of a tree on the riverbank."

Mrs. Beaver laughed softly; it'd been summer then, and the two kings had somehow gotten completely turned around and ended up farther down the river, out of sight of the dam. Peter had tried to cross it but slipped on the bank. He'd fallen headfirst into a wateringhole some of the Narnians had made, and came out covered in mud, from the tip of his no-longer golden head to his toes. "The poor dear had to go for a swim when he got here, to get it all off before lunch, and he got so tired of his brother laughing at him he pulled King Edmund right into the river as well."

* * *

Edmund tied his horse's reins to a tree and ran for the river bank, stumbling in the snow. He slid right down the bank and hit the ice on the edge with both feet.

It was so cold, colder than the floor of his bedroom in the mornings, as cold as the White Witch's gaze. He stood on it, reaching out to grab the rope with one hand. Don't let go of the rope, don't let go of the rope. Get to Peter, don't let go of the rope.

Peter.

Peter, who looked worse this close. Edmund took a deep breath and started walking; he slipped, and hung from the rope. He got up again, he _had_ to get to Peter, and slipped again. He gave up and started sliding forward on his knees.

Peter was turning blue, his fingers, his lips. He was shaking, still trying to heave himself up, then falling back down again, and again.

He was using too much energy, Edmund thought frantically. The healers said not to move, if something like this happened, when they'd played down near the sea when winter began. "Peter, stop! I'm coming! Peter!"

Peter looked up, catching sight of his brother. "The ice broke, Ed," he coughed, voice shaking.

"I _know_, you idiot, that's why I'm coming!"

"It broke, Ed!" Peter was still coughing, trying to make Edmund understand. Begging.

"I _know_." Almost within arms reach. He tried not to look at Peter's face, white and blue and all wrong.

"Get," Peter coughed, "_back_." He took in a breath. "The ice broke and you'll fall in too," he said, his voice trying to sound commanding.

Edmund ignored him. He could reach Peter now. He grabbed one wrist, holding Peter, making sure he didn't fall back in.

The wrist felt as cold as the ice beneath it, and it wasn't shivering much anymore. Don't think of it, don't think of it, Edmund chanted in his head. Just get Peter out. He grabbed Peter's other wrist, pulling himself forward and closer to his brother, letting go of the rope.

The ice creaked.

* * *

Mrs. Beaver stopped laughing, eyes soft. "But they were finally fine this time."

* * *

Edmund thrust both his arms under Peter's armpits, ignoring the wet, icing clothing, and pulled with all he had, rolling towards the bank, Peter coming over the top of him and to the side. The ice beside him broke; he kept rolling, rolling, still grabbing Peter and pushing him over, rolling over him, doing it again, like they were kids rolling down an icy hill. He stopped when they hit the bank, panting.

"Peter?"

Peter didn't stir. Edmund, shivering, hands shaking, pushed himself up on the cursed, cold, deadly ice and looked at his brother.

Peter was still blue, and his eyes weren't focusing. "Peter, _wake up!"_ Edmund started shaking him, stopped, wait, he wasn't supposed to move him, but Peter had to stay awake!

"Go away, Ed," Peter grumbled sleepily. "'m tired."

"No, I'm not, and you're not sleeping!" Edmund stripped off his coat and Peter's, switching them, bundling his brother into the drier clothing. But it wasn't enough; Peter's eyes were still fluttering. "Stay awake, you fool!"

"It hurts," Peter said, still blinking. "I don't want to." Edmund reached down, ready to shake him, and Peter batted his hands away weakly. "It hurts."

"I know, but you have to stay awake, Peter. Just till I get you warm, I promise."

Peter didn't respond this time, just blinked up sleepily. Edmund looked around frantically, looking for anything, a cave, wood for a fire, a snowbank big enough to dig in, anything!

There, down the river, a dark huddle. Wood, it looked like, curved like a roof, curved like -

Like something they'd left just that afternoon.

Aslan, please, let it be the Beavers' dam. Edmund didn't care that they'd turned all the way around, as long as it was a place Peter could get warm. But he had to get Peter there, moving him as little as possible. He stood, slipped, and fell into the bank; he got up in the snow, not the ice, turning around to drag Peter by the armpits into the bank. He wasn't leaving him on the ice again. He turned to go get his horse.

* * *

Mrs. Beaver had finally finished the bag - it had only been a straight line and one corner. She still smiled, remembering. The fourth time the kings came, it had been the younger brother's turn. King Edmund had fallen off his horse, doing something neither of the kings would explain, and he'd had the wind knocked out of him. He'd been coughing, but it hadn't been too bad. Maybe this time they'd finally learned enough not to get into trouble.

Her husband had lit his pipe again. "Better start on the blankets," he advised, puffing away. "It's a cold winter and we might need 'em."

She got the warm, cozy material down from her cupboard and started sewing. She wished she'd thought to send the kings with an extra blanket while she was at it. She wasn't sure Cair Paravel was warm enough.

* * *

Edmund fumbled with the reins, clumsy fingers continually dropping them. He started coughing from the chilled air, biting into his lungs. It was so _cold_ out here without his coat. But Peter needed it more. Peter needed something warm.

The knot came undone, and he pulled, leading his quiet horse down the snow bank. Thank you, Aslan, that the horse isn't fighting me. Thank you I got one the centaurs trained. Down, slipping, sliding, the horse quietly following behind him. Down to where Peter was.

Peter was asleep. "No, Peter, _please_," Edmund said, but it came out a whisper. He shook Peter's shoulder, wrapped up in Edmund's too-small coat, but Peter didn't wake.

One thing at a time. Aslan, keep him alive till I get him warm. Please, Aslan, please, I'm trying-

Edmund turned to the horse, pressing its shoulder to get it to kneel, like all battle horses were trained to, and it obediently knelt. He went back to Peter, pulling him up and across the horse.

"Sorry Peter," he panted, putting him face down across the horse. "But if you were awake you could sit up." He tapped the horse's shoulder again and it stood, and Edmund led it back up the bank as quickly as he could, glancing back to make sure Peter wouldn't fall off. Up the small hill, panting and praying, Edmund swung up, keeping a hand on Peter. He gathered up the reins and turned the horse towards the dam. Please, Aslan, please, let it be what I think it is, he prayed.

* * *

Two blankets done; she had material enough for five. She reached for another, then paused. "Mr. Beaver, do you hear something?" He put down his pipe, head alert, listening. Even a year later, both reverted to the perfect stillness of hunted animals, listening, listening with a stillness that slowed even their heartbeats.

_Clop-clop. Clop-clop. Clop-clop_.

"It's hoofbeats," Mr. Beaver said, frowning. "But who-" he looked out the window and gasped. Mrs. Beaver also looked out - and saw King Edmund sliding off a horse, a bundle right in front of him. Both beavers dashed for the door.

"King Edmund! What happened? Are you alright?" Mr. Beaver yelled, running on all fours across the frozen dam.

"Never mind that now, get them inside!" Mrs. Beaver called, and Mr. Beaver turned to look at her.

"Them? Who-" and stopped, as he saw King Peter.

* * *

Peter wouldn't wake. Over and over, Edmund tried, all that everlasting ride to the dam, but Peter wouldn't wake up. Not even to Edmund calling his name, asking for _help_. Peter _always_ came for that. But this time he didn't. The beavers came out, and Edmund asked his horse to kneel, and pulled Peter off. Mr. Beaver took one arm, he took the other, and together they pulled his lummox of a brother _who wouldn't wake up_ across the ice and into the warm house. Please wake up, Peter.

"Get him in bed, there's a dear," Mrs. Beaver said, already doing something over the fire. Mr. Beaver and Edmund - mostly Edmund - carried Peter over to the bunked bed and set him in it. "Get him out of those wet clothes, right now," Mrs. Beaver added, setting a kettle on the stove.

"Best do as she says, she had a lot of practice warming folk in the winter," Mr. Beaver said encouragingly. He was already taking off Peter's boots. "But gently now!" he warned, as Edmund tried to take the coat off. "Don't move him too much." As gently as possible, Edmund lifted Peter up and unwrapped the coat. Together, he and Mr. Beaver took off all the wet clothes, and bundled Peter in the warm blankets laying beside the sewing machine. Mrs. Beaver came over, a steaming cup of tea in her paws, and Mr. Beaver went out the door.

"Lift him up now," she instructed Edmund, "that's it, dear. Now, High King Peter, drink this," and she put the cup of tea to his lips. Peter drank a little, a bit dribbling down his cheek, and murmured something. "That's it, now lay him down," Mrs. Beaver said. "There now, he'll be all right!"

"You're sure?" Edmund asked anxiously, hovering right behind her. "He's still not awake. When will he wake up?"

"Shhh, dear, it's normal. He got too cold. We just have to wait till his body warms up, and then he'll wake up. I promise. See? He already looks better." Edmund looked, and the blue was fading; Peter was a little less pale, too.

"Can I help?" Edmund asked. "Anything, really - just, anything?"

"Of course. Here, come help me with these." Mrs. Beaver was back by the fire, and Edmund went over. Mr. Beaver came back in, two large pawfuls of snow in front of him, and he dumped them in the bowl of steaming water Mrs. Beaver was putting on the table. "There, now, that's good, warm, not hot, that's the trick," she said, sticking her nose down to the surface, and coming up again. "Now, dip these cloths in, and put them all over his face. Especially the ears, dear. You humans have such funny ears, and they can get so cold." Edmund took them, and wrapped them around Peter's face. "Not over his mouth, or the bottom of his nose!" Mrs. Beaver said anxiously, hovering behind him. "Let him breathe."

Edmund, carefully, did as instructed. The cloths were laid on Peter's forehead, around his ears, on his cheeks, on the top of his nose. Edmund laid the last one on his chin, and reached to take the one on his forehead and dip it again. Again, and again, dipping, wringing out the water, and putting it back. Mrs. Beaver and Mr. Beaver added hot water or cold snow as necessary, and each time Edmund lifted the cloth on Peter's cheek he breathed a little easier - it was becoming redder, warmer - more alive.

Peter would be all right. Edmund was a little more sure of it now.

If only he would wake up and make Edmund completely sure.

* * *

Peter being Peter, he decided to sleep through the night and into the next morning, only waking when Mrs. Beaver started to fry breakfast over the fire.

"Edmund?" said a puzzled, sleepy voice.

Edmund got up from the table and walked over to his brother. "You fell." He said flatly. "You went first and you fell through the ice and I had to pull you from the river because the rope got stuck and and you _couldn't get out_ and _we rolled to the bank_ and you _fell asleep_ after I told you not to and you _wouldn't wake up till this morning_." He glared down at Peter. "You shouldn't get breakfast. I should take you back to Cair Paravel without breakfast and leave you in the stable." He smiled evilly. "But I'm going to do something worse. I'm going to let _Mrs. Beaver_ fuss over you." He stepped back, and Peter sat up.

"_Ed_, that's _rude_!" he protested. "It's lovely to see you again, Mrs. Beaver," he added politely. He looked back at Edmund. "I'm sorry about the river," he said more quietly.

"You should be," Edmund said angrily, and went back and sat at the table, eating his breakfast and refusing to say another word.

Peter ate - warm liquids, Mrs. Beaver insisted, before she went outside with her husband to give the kings some space - and tried to wake himself up fully. "How'd we get here?" he asked eventually. Edmund didn't answer. "Come on, Ed, it's not like we're going anywhere yet," he said.

"You fell into the Beavers' river," Edmund said, staring down at his breakfast. Peter looked over at him, then looked again, taking in his posture. He took a breath, then pushed his blankets and stood up, testing his balance. He quietly walked over to the table and sat next to Edmund, pushing into his arm.

"What are you doing?" Edmund asked, startled. He glanced back over at the bed, then back at his brother. "You shouldn't be up yet! Mrs. Beaver said-"

"I'm fine," Peter said firmly. "Seriously, Ed, we faced down the White Witch and her army. A cold dip in a river won't set me back much. We can go back to Cair before lunch. I promise."

Edmund continued staring down at his plate. "Right here, Ed," Peter said. Edmund looked up, and Peter ignored how his eyes were shining with water. "I'm fine." He reached over and stole some of Edmund's breakfast and ate it, grinning. "See?"

"Fine," Edmund scowled, but Peter could read his brother well enough to know he was relieved, and Peter turned to serve himself some more of the breakfast, and the two of them ate in the quiet, taking moments to try to make it peaceful.

Finally Peter finished, and turned towards his brother. "Your turn," he said to Edmund. Edmund looked down at his big, stupid, no-longer-blue brother and frowned. "Your turn," Peter reiterated, smiling slightly. "Your turn to say _I told you so._"

"My turn to take the risks next time," Edmund retorted. "And _you_ can pull me from a freezing river and get me on a horse and watch me turn into an icicle." He glared down at his brother. "And I _did_ tell you so."

Peter laughed, then coughed, bending over and wheezing. "Right," he said, when he'd got his breath back. He looked up at Edmund. "One more thing, Ed. Whose turn is it to tell the girls?"

OOOOO

A/N: So, despite having lived in Alaska and a midwestern state that freezes under at least a foot of snow every winter, I'm very _unfamiliar_ with hypothermia, because everyone in those states who lives there doesn't get it; we know better. So all the symptoms and cures are learned from medical websites, and I'm sorry for any inaccuracies.


End file.
